


A London Season

by Tal



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1910s, Backstory, Character Study, Internal Monologue, M/M, Missing Scene, POV First Person, Season/Series 01, The Season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tal/pseuds/Tal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you threatening me? Because of a youthful dalliance? A few weeks of madness in a London Season?" Said the Duke of Crowborough to Thomas Barrow. This is a story of what might have happened in those weeks of madness and why they ended the way they ended. </p><p>Thomas Barrow is no fool. He knows who he is, he knows what that makes him, and he knows what he can get. He has learned to live the life he's been dealt and he doesn't seek out what he can't have. And he's fine, really. </p><p>But sometimes something good comes along and the hope of not dying alone, the possibility of being loved wins over common sense. Happens to the best. And when Thomas meets the Duke of Crowborough, it happens to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

So, I managed to get a few days off from Downton, with the excuse that I needed to go back home to visit a dying grandmother. It’s a lie. _A_ _ny_ visit to my family would be a lie. Me and my family haven’t been on speaking terms since my father died. I don’t care, it doesn’t affect me. Just a fact of life. Besides, they still have their use. One by one they suffer imaginary illnesses, and mournful deaths, giving me an excuse for some time off. Works wonders. And Carson is a gullible sap. So far I’ve used up a nice and two grandfathers. Now it’s grandmamma getting me some extra time off.

In truth, I haven’t been up north in years. Much rather go to London, anyway.

I walk through Hyde Park, pretending it’s the short-cut I need from work to my flat (not that it matters, but it makes acting the part easier, should I require an excuse). It’s a dangerous game and not one I play very often. It’s not like it's the sort of thing you can find in any city, but here in London, you can.

I remember there was a time I thought I was the only one. I thought I was damaged, at first, broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed. Even as a young boy, girls didn’t interest me. I never thought about finding a wife and marrying her. I never saw the appeal in the pictures and photographs my older brothers sneaked into the bedroom. At school (not _at_ school, but during my school days), I learned of the vileness of sin, of the unspeakable kind and their corruption. I didn’t understand the point they were making, but I remember that I didn’t think they were talking about me, as such. Didn’t put two and two together until much later.

I felt guilty for a while, when I did eventually do the math, believing my own sin, but it didn’t last. I’ve never seen myself as vile. I’m different, but I’m not vile. I know what society makes of me and my kind, but I don’t feel it. I won’t deny there’s something wrong with me, but I’m not depraved.

I stop and linger by a tree, pretending I’m in search of a light for my cigarette, when _he_ crosses my path. He’s handsome, but I’m not in it for that. I gather he’s upper-class from his attire, but no one looks at that sort of thing here. All men are equals here, in the park, at night. It’s the sort of thing that should appeal any working-class man, if not for what actually goes on in the shrubberies, which doesn’t hold the same appeal to most. It does, however, hold appeal to _me_.

I apologize and ask him if he could spare a light. The game starts. If he’s not here for the same reason I’m here for, he might look down his nose at me; a working-class man daring to address him. As it is, he doesn’t look down his nose, but produces a box of matches. He doesn’t offer the pack to me, but strikes a match himself and holds out the burning end for me to light my cigarette on. This means I have to lean in to light it, which I do. If I hadn’t been here for the reasons I’m here for, I might have looked strangely at his gesture (why not just give me the pack, for example). I don’t. Instead, I put my hand over his to help steady the match as I light my cigarette . If he hadn’t been here for the same thing I’m here for, he might have pulled his hand away at the touch. He doesn’t. His eyes momentarily stray as they look behind me to see if anyone’s coming. _Possibly_ to see if anyone’s coming. Possibly he’s just an insufferably polite and naïve upper-class git and I’ve misinterpreted all the signs. Perhaps he thinks the same of me. Perhaps he thinks I’m just a drunkard in need of a light.

One of us has to make the first move, the first irrevocable move, that one gesture that makes all intentions perfectly clear. I’m not sure I dare to be the one just yet, so decide to push it a little more.

“Thank you,” I say, and amicably put my hand on his arm. He freezes, and can I see shock in his eyes. My hand is stuck on his arm. I don’t dare to move. Did I misinterpret everything? Did I read into things because I’m desperate for it? Can I still come out of this with my head held high?

“Here?” He asks and suddenly it makes sense; he hasn’t done this before.

I squeeze his arm, and I don’t let go. “Here,” I tell him, and together we leave the main path.

When you’re like me, this is probably the best you can get. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind. It’s better, in a way. We don’t have to worry about what we do and who we do it to. No consequences, unless you’re caught, of course. While normal men run the risk of impregnating some poor girl by accident, we can go about doing what we like. Under cover, of course, in secret and hidden from the world, but still. You get used to secrecy. And then you can do what you please.

I won't deny I feel a pang of jealousy when I see happy couples in the street. They have what we can’t have, not in public. A loving touch of the arm, a smile, a caress. It’s not for us. But you get used to it, right? You learn to live the life you’ve been dealt and you don’t seek out what you can't have. You don’t look go for it, you just take what you can get. And it's fine.

But sometimes, something good comes your way. A little hope, a little dream. It’s foolish, but it can’t be helped. Sometimes the hope of not dying alone, the possibility of being loved, of being held, wins over common sense. Happens to the best.

And despite myself, I have let it win.


	2. A meeting in the garden

It’s the London Season, which means the family is  in their London residence parading around their daughters to potential suitors. It also means that we’re stuck at Downton doing stupid jobs that take up a lot of time and are appreciated by no one (cleaning silverware, polishing doorknobs, cleaning fireplaces). I hate being the footman during the Season. The work is beneath me. So, when I’m told that  the family is in need of an extra pair of hands in London and would I be so kind as to act as servant in their London residence for a while, I don’t hide my satisfaction. And I don't hide smugness from my smirk when I wish my good colleagues a good week and take off to London. Well, it’s better than polishing silver no one will ever use.  
  
I’m serving drinks in the Library when he is announced into the room as the Duke of Crowborough. He’s beautiful, and I have to mind myself before I’m caught staring. All grace, all manners, all smiles. Has it all, gets it all. Life has smiled at him and he breathes it. He's the sort of man every man wants to be and every woman wants to be with. And me. I wouldn’t mind, certainly. He doesn’t as much as glance in my direction, of course and I don’t expect him to.  
  
It’s much later that evening and I’m on a cigarette break when he suddenly comes out into the garden. I quickly  push myself off the wall and straighten my jacket. “Your Grace?” I ask, curtly, as I drop the cigarette on the ground and put it out with my shoe. Servants don’t have a life as far as upstairs is concerned, and most don’t like knowing you do human things like eat and smoke.  
  
“No need for that,” he waves my curtness away with a smile. “I just came out here to escape the house. Could you spare me a cigarette?”  
  
I offer him a cigarette  and he puts it in his mouth, expectantly waiting for a light. I hurriedly strike a match for him, and he leans in, covering my hand with  his. It means nothing. It  probably means nothing. He looks up at me as he sucks the other end of the cigarette, until it’s lit. He smiles as he stands back up and I remind myself that I shouldn’t mistake politeness for something else. It’s a very bad idea. I light a cigarette for myself instead.  
  
“I must apologize for intruding on your break, but I must say I’m glad to get out of the house for a moment,” he confesses.  
  
I smile, but keep my mouth shut. You don’t _chat_ to a Duke. “The London Season can wear one out. It makes any gathering quite then hen-house.“ He manages to laugh a bit at his own comparison, almost shyly, and I’ve stopped looking at him. I keep my eyes on the shed at the other end of the garden instead. Don’t want to do anything stupid now.  
  
“Not fond of the chatter?” I venture, because he's clearly waiting for an answer.  
  
He keeps his eyes on the same shed, as if he’s trying to find what it is I’m looking at. “Not fond of hens.” He says, thoughtfully. I try to keep all thoughts of impurity as far away as possible, just in case any surface on my face. These games (if this is a game) are dangerous. Moreso when a Duke is involved.  
  
There is another moment of silence between us before he lets his cigarette drop. “Well. I’m off to bed. “ Only then does he look at me. “Goodnight.”  
  
I nod in return, but don’t exhale the breath of smoke I’ve been holding until he’s gone through the door.  
  
My mind races, my thoughts surface. Was it an invitation? When he said goodnight, was that a glint in his eye? Or was he simply tired? Was his comment of hens a joke? Or was he insinuating his preference? Was it an accident that we met here? Or was it his plan to come to me in the garden? Does he have a bet on with someone (‘I bet you I can seduce that servant and let’s all have a laugh about getting him sacked disgracefully’)? Is it a risk I’m willing to take? With a _Duke_?  
  
I should compose myself. I’ve always been able to control myself. He’s just a young Duke and all he’s said can be put down to bewilderment of the London Season and all its balls and parties. I shouldn’t read into it.


	3. A meeting in a room

It’s an absolute chaos downstairs. Visiting Lords and Ladies bring their own staff and at any time of day our cramped little servant's room is packed with ladies' maids and valets trying to find whatever it is their masters require of them, fixing buttons, cleaning shoes, or stuffing down some food quickly on a minute's break. No one seems to be in charge. It suits me perfectly. Means I can easily vanish for a few moments without being noticed, and sneak out to the garden for a smoke.  
  
Mr. Watson – Lord Grantham’s valet – is supposed to be in charge in this, but the poor man couldn't keep a house if his life depended on it. Back at Downton he had Carson to fall back on, but here his lack of authority is painfully obvious. The chaos is just too much for him and his nerves are acting up. It’s a fun process to watch. With every passing minute you can see his composure slip a little further. Tick-tock. It's just a matter of time before his nerves shatter.  
  
I can’t feel sorry for him. I have my own career to think of and if he’s out of the picture, there’s nothing standing in the way of me becoming the Lord’s valet myself. So I watch it, lazily leaning against the wall, smirk barely hidden, sharing only disapproving glances with O’Brian, who shares my opinion. He's not up to the job and, no, he won’t last.  
  
It’s the best sort of demise, really; the sort I will be able to profit from, without requiring any effort on my behalf. I only have to be there to pick up the pieces when poor Lord Grantham is bereft of his valet. Patience, that's all it takes. So, yes, it’s hard not to smile at Watson’s distress.  
  
“Thomas!” I’m only standing on the other end of the room, but as loud as he shouts you’d think I was in another building.  
  
I look up dryly. “Mr. Watson?”  
  
“Would you mind looking after the Duke? His valet has been called home unexpectedly. Something personal. Calm down!” The last turns out to be directed to a few hysterically giggling maids, but for a second I fear he's referring to me. Luckily, as it happens my face hasn't reddened and I'm able to hide the jump of my heart behind a collected drag from a cigarette.  
  
(But did he ask for me, I wonder, did he specifically name me? Is it a coincidence that I should be the one called up, or has the Duke managed to arrange it? And why? For the reasons I hope, or for the reasons that I should dread?)  
  
Watson no doubt mistakes my lack of response for haughty indifference. Suits me fine. Anything but show what _really_ goes on in my mind. The world couldn’t bear it, my shameful existence. “Is there a problem?”  
  
“No, Mr. Watson, there isn’t. I’d be happy to do it.”  
  
“I should think so. Go up now and see if he needs anything.”  
  
The journey out of the servant's room hysteria to the Duke's room is just the thing I need to gather myself. I shouldn't read anything into this. He's young, perhaps he thought he could befriend a servant because it's the height of fashion to do so (some of them just love to pretend they're socialists), perhaps he's just after a laugh, perhaps I'm just seeing things because – despite myself – I want to see them. I decide, then, _not_ to take any chances. He's a Duke, I'm a servant and he won't get any subtle hints or purposeful comments from me. It's far too dangerous to play that game now.  
  
I straighten my suit and knock on the door. His voice tells me to come in.  
  
“Ah,” he says as I walk in. “I was hoping it might be you, but I don't know your name, so I couldn't ask.”  
  
And just like that, those words barely spoken, and every promise I made to myself on the way up vanishes. I'm taking the risk and I'll just see how I talk myself out of it if it falls to pieces.  
  
“Thomas, your Grace,” I answer with a curt nod, a smile parting on my lips of a somewhat cheeky nature. A smile that servants would usually not dare to express in front of their employer.  
  
“My valet has been called home. You don’t mind standing in for him, do you? I might need you for a while.”  
  
'Not at all', would be the appropriate response, and my heart is racing, because I don't aim to say that at all. It's a dangerous game, but there is something to be said for the rush of adrenaline it causes. I might have changed my mind and I might have said it too, but he's coming towards me as he waits for my answer, so I decide to take another step.  
  
“That depends what’s asked of me.” He's in front of me now, and smiles. I debate what to do and opt to loosen his tie. At least I’ll be able to put it down to misunderstanding if he turns me down. Whether he's an innocent, or if he's just toying with me; I need to be able to walk away head held high.  
  
As it happens, I don't even have time to reach for his tie. He beats me to it, and puts a hand through my hair. “I want to take you to bed.”  
  
He took that step; crossed that point of no return with a leap. It changes everything. He's not an innocent and he's not toying (well, perhaps he _is_ but in a manner I can live with). I allow myself to smile more genuinely now. “That can be arranged.”


	4. A moment of pretending

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” he confesses and I take it as my cue to leave and never as much as glance in his direction ever again. That’s what you do when people lie so blatantly. You accept that they’re just hopelessly trying to deny what just happened, dress and leave.  
  
I don’t hold it against him. I wouldn’t hold it against anyone to deny this part of their lives exists, except in those few moments when it happens. We don’t exist in the light of day, so what difference does it make if we hide or deny it? It’s harder, of course, it when you're in bed with someone, for obvious reasons, but any other moment, you might as well pretend it never was. I might not do so to myself, but there's no difference between me and someone who denies. We both live in the shadows and we both lie.  
  
Doesn’t mean I like being asked to leave, but to whine about _that_ is pointless. You take what you can get, you don’t complain about what isn’t. Simple.  
  
“Don’t you want to stay? I wouldn’t want you to think I was throwing you out.” And suddenly there’s a hand on my arm.  
  
I was reaching for my trousers, but the touch has stopped me, and instead I turn back to him. He must have seen the confusion on my face.  
  
“I just meant to say what I said. I have never done this.” I'm not sure what he's getting at, but it’s such an obvious lie that I don’t even try to hide the sardonic look on my face. What’s he playing at? Is he still playing? Am I not in the clear yet? Is there’s something I’ve missed? Can I leave this room with my head held high? “Not like this, never with... someone like you.”  
  
I should commend him for his subtlety, but frankly the conversation is beginning to annoy me. “A servant,” I shoot at him.  
  
“Yes,” he says, with the shiest of smiles. In my annoyance I’d forgotten how beautiful he is and what a splendid sight he makes; a naked body poorly covered by a blanket, his head resting on his fist, the other lazily fingering a corner of the sheet. “I apologize if that sounded harsh.” The words (the sight, let’s be honest) manages to soften my aggravation.  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“Have you?” His hand has found the small of my back, which I will confess is a little ticklish, but he caresses it so gently, that it just feels nice. I should move, I should leave, but I don’t want to stand up. The touch of his soft hand on me feels good and I wouldn’t mind it lasting a little longer.  
  
I don’t answer the question. My private life is my private life and I don’t discuss it. The less you tell, the less can be used against you. I think maybe he understands that, because he doesn’t repeat the question.  
  
We remain like that for a while, he, caressing my back, I, eyes on the mirror in the corner, looking at the picture we paint. I have to admit I rather like it. Two men, doing what God and law forbid, but pleased and unashamed. He smiles at me through the mirror and as I feel my defenses fall, I smile back at him. It doesn’t last (it can’t last), but for a moment I’m not so wary of him. For a moment there are no suspicions and no fears. For a second I don’t feel alone. We’re in this together. Contra Mundum.  We’re both guilty, and we’re both content.  
  
It’s not real, of course. We’re a Duke and a footman, I remind myself, and I _should_ leave. As I do, he grabs my hand and refuses to let me go. I turn. The room is completely silent except for the creaking of the bed as I move. I lean in and so does he. And then we kiss.  
  
He keeps his hand on mine and the other on my face as we do and I put a hand through his hair. Just as I’m coming to terms with the reality of the situation, I’m dragged away from it. We touch as if we are equals, and as if there's nothing strange or wrong about our situation.  
  
“I should leave,” I whisper on his lips eventually.  
  
“I know. Good night.”  
  
So, I do leave. I won’t deny it’s nice to pretend things are different for a bit, to just kiss and enjoy the moment with no care for what might happen next, but I can’t afford it. If I don’t show up in my own bed, there could be rumours and I can’t let afford that. I suppose he doesn’t have to be as discrete as I do. As a Duke his word is enough; if he says nothing has happened, then nothing has happened. But a lowly footman such as me will always have to prove himself. I have to watch what is said and what is told if I want to keep my job and a life worth living. I am required to live in the real world.  
  
But I do feel sorry I have to leave. And (or is that just wistful nonsense?) I think he is sorry to see me go too.


	5. Time for a change

No one missed me. No suspicious eyes, no judging glances in my direction. I’m always suspicious someone might notice something, but my worry seems unfounded. I suppose most of them have such a clear conscience that they have no idea the sort of thing exists. So, thankfully, no one knows what I’ve been up to.

No one, that is, except O’Brian, who suddenly appears next to me. “Where’ve _you_ been?”  She has a sense for these things. In the Dark Ages she would have been burned as a witch.

“What do you mean? I just woke up.”

She’s not thrown off easily. “Last night.”

“None of your business,” I drawl in my usual manner.

She doesn't answer. There’s nothing on her face, no knowing smile, no hint of disgust.I honestly don’t know what she thinks of it. It’s obvious she knows something has happened, and she likely knows who it was with, but other that, her thoughts are a mystery to me.

I’ve known O’Brian for a long time, but I still don’t know what she thinks of me. Not really. She agrees with me on most things when it comes to the house, and I like her methods and she likes mine, but I couldn’t tell you what she makes of me, of what I am. She never found out as such, there has never been proof, but she seems to have always known and she doesn’t seem to judge it. And though I don’t trust her (I don’t trust anyone when it comes to these matters), I don’t feel I need to pretend to be something I’m not when she’s around. I suppose that’s a good thing.

We don’t talk about it, of course, I don’t pour my heart out to her, but I don’t have to mind my P’s and Q’s so much. She reads what happened last night on my face, and I don’t have to find excuses, or try proving her wrong. And if a comment escapes me, or a glance is cast, it doesn’t seem to disgust her. It’s as comfortable as it gets for the likes of me.

The morning progresses as expected and what a beautiful day it is. The sun is shining, the birds are signing and Mr. Watson is close to a break-down, unless he suffers a heart-attack first. I have to mind not to smile _too_ brightly.

I can’t deny last night has something to do with it (can’t deny I enjoyed last night very much), but mostly I put my good cheer down to good old Mr. Watson. Who’d have thought the old sod could ever make me smile?

I sneak out into the garden just before lunch. Mr. Watson’s hasn't fallen yet and I’m still a footman and a needed extra pair of hands in the house, so I’ve been doing all manner of odd and dull jobs all morning. This is my fifteen minutes of rest amidst this chaos, and I deserve them.

“I never see you do any work,” comes a voice from behind . It’s the Duke, finding me in the garden once again.

“Is there something you need, your Grace?” I ask, politely enough, but in a tone that isn’t quite the tone I would use upstairs. We’ve shared in sin; it changes things. Not upstairs - upstairs nothing ever changes - but here, the Duke should understand that the game is different to what it was yesterday.

“How do you find the time?” He wonders with a little snicker.

"I believe that’s none of your business.” The unspoken threat here should be obvious: I’ve seen you naked, so don’t think you can play games with me anymore. We are equals in sin, so you shouldn’t think you have any hold on me.

“It was just a question,” he says, and he seems honest enough.

Perhaps I was too harsh. My first reaction is always defensiveness. When you’re like me you don’t trust that easily, not even (or especially not) after a night like last night. You expect to be cheated, you expect to be betrayed. You expect any conversation can turn against you at any point. But I suppose he doesn’t deserve my coldness, if he is genuinely just looking for conversation. I offer him a cigarette and he readily accepts it.

“Watson won’t realize I’m away until we sit down for lunch. Too busy getting his nerves shot,” I comment instead.

“Shouldn’t you offer your help?” He leans in and steadies my hand with the soft hand that caressed me yesterday. I feel a fool for the warmth the touch causes me.

“And let him walk with all the credit? I don’t think so. I’ll offer my help, when I’m offered the position.”

“As?” He gratefully exhales a puff of smoke.

“Lord Grantham’s valet.”

He grins. “Moving up in the world,” he says, mockingly.

“Yes.” I state this very clearly. He might not think much of it, but it’s a step up in the world for _me_.

“Yes, of course.” And he is still mocking.

“I understand it’s nothing to _you_ , but I _do_ have to worry about ordinary things like having enough money to eat and pay my way through life. And I don’t think you should mock me for it.” I would tell him to sod off, but even now, I do maintain some standard. He _is_ a Duke, after all.

“Money…” The humour is entirely out of his voice and he sounds quite hoarse. “It’s always money. “

I have no reply for that wryness.

I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel sorry for him. There’s something wrong, that much is obvious. Something is bothering him.

Before I know it my hand has found his cheek. He doesn't push away, but closes his eyes and leans in. Then he takes my hand and presses it against his mouth, for a cautious, lingering kiss. “I didn’t mean to mock you. Forgive me, please.”

I nod only. The kiss on my hand has completely thrown me. It's all he can risk in this garden (probabaly more than he can risk), but it’s such an unexpected gesture. I’m a working class man from Manchester. No one has _ever_ kissed my hand.

“I have to get back to the house. Thank you for the cigarette.” And with that he leaves.

That afternoon we meet outside, as I pack the bags onto the carriage. He says his goodbyes to the family and doesn’t spare me a second glance. I don’t expect any different. We live in the shadows and that’s where our glances remain.

“You!… er…,” he says suddenly, just before he gets into the carriage.

“Thomas, your Grace,” I don’t know if he’s joking, or truly doesn’t know my name and ignore the twist in my guts that causes me.

“Thomas. A little something. Thank you for making my stay endurable in the absence of my valet.” A gloved hand shoves something in mine. I mean to say I don’t want his money (I’m not a tart), but as he presses it into my hand, I realize it’s not money he’s handing me.

He smiles, but that’s all he can do and I can’t smile back at him. So I merely offer a curt nod, shove the note in my pocket without a glance and watch him leave.

The day is long, but still bright in my book. It’s still chaos, it’s still too much for poor old Mr. Watson and – though he’s managing to survive longer than I imagined – he’s close to losing it completely. The longer it takes, the harder he’ll fall.

At night, in my room I'm finally able to produce the tip from my pocket. It’s a note.

_Dear Thomas,_  
 _Thank you for your good care. I have enjoyed your company very much._  
 _London is not rid of me yet, and I hope in my time here that we might_  
 _meet again. I hope very much that you feel the same._  
 _C._

The secrecy of the initial is hardly necessary, as he’s written it on his own stationary, but that silly detail is not why I'm smiling.

To the world I’ve waited on him and I served as his valet for one evening. To the world he doesn’t even know my name. But he knows it.

And he's right; I _would_ like to meet him again.

But, as it is, as a footman, I’m stuck in the house for the rest of the Season. Time for a career change, I think.

Time to put Mr. Watson out of his misery.


	6. Time for a trip

Well. That was easy.  
  
I’ve been baiting him since I got to London, of course. Little nudges here and there, quiet but biting remarks that I know haven’t gone unnoticed by the wreck of a valet. Nothing too overt, mind. Wasn't needed. Most of the damage was done by Mr. Watson himself. He can’t handle a house and all the guests that have been coming and going. It was just too much for him. He keeps a little notebook. I've seen him write in it. It's where he puts down all he needs to remember for the day. His head can’t cope with the bustle of the house, see, so he needs to keep what should be in his head, in writing in his little book. It's very unprofessional. And it didn't exactly help him. I’ve seen him retreat and clutch it tightly against his chest in moments of true chaos, when everyone seemed to need something from the same room. I've seen him cling to that notebook as if it were the last threat of his sanity.    
  
So, when he lost it, he lost it.  
  
Amidst the chaos the notebook - carelessly left on the table next to the stove - fell to the floor. Amidst the chaos a foot must have accidentally pushed it under the stove. That's the official story. Yes, it was me who pushed it off the table and yes, it was me who gave it the shove it needed to disappear under the stove. I feel no guilt. I helped him along, yes, but his fall was inevitable. When a man believes his sanity rests in a stupid little notebook, he’s far beyond losing it already.  
  
So, notebook lost, Mr. Watson frantically started searching it. It’s sad, I suppose, that no one noticed his distress. Everyone was busy and no one took notice of a man who was - in their eyes - as panicky as he had been all week.  
  
I knew it wouldn't be long before he collapsed, so I kept an eye on him, but in the end, I missed the great fall.  
  
I was in the kitchen, talking to O’Brian. Mr. Watson, meanwhile, rushed to the other room. I was about to make up an excuse and tell O'Brian I needed to go, when a sudden commotion in the other room cut me off.  
  
We rushed over and there he was, lying on the floor; Mr. Watson had finally fallen. And I missed it.  
  
Anyway. Lord Grantham was in need of a valet and there I was, an extra pair of hands, available and eager. It was only natural that I should be taken on.  
  
It’s temporary, of course. Lord Grantham has made that abundantly clear; he doesn’t Watson to think he’s been replaced, since he is just suffering a small inconvenience and only needs 'a bit of rest'. So, I’m just to act as valet for as long as Mr. Watson needs to recover, but it’s a start.  
  
And a pretty good start, at that.  
  
“Thomas,” one of the guest’s valet’s starts. I glare at him through the smoke of my cigarette, because, even as acting valet, he’s supposed to call me Mr. Barrow now. Let’s do things properly while we’re at it. He decides, wisely, to ask someone else whatever favour he needed. I have no time for idiots and anyway, I’ve got better things to do.  
  
The family is going to a party, held at the Northbrook residence. And I’ve heard the family mention at dinner that the Duke of Crowborough is also invited. Lady Mary seems to think she might have a chance with him. I tried not to snort as I served them their meals.  
  
O’Brian finds me later at night, just as I head to bed. “You seem very pleased,” she remarks.  
  
“Well, I’m acting valet now. It’s a start,” I explain dryly.  
  
“No,” she says, thoughtfully. “That’s not it.” She leaves it at that, but when I get to my room and see my reflection in the mirror, I notice what she meant.  
  
Might sound stupid, but my face seems lighter somehow. It's not a smug smile, it's a bright one. And that's new to me.


	7. More than a meeting

“I don’t know, Barrow,” Lord Grantham laments into the mirror he’s standing in front of as I dress him. “Why can’t she just accept Patrick? It would make my life so much easier.”  
  
“It’s still early days, your Lordship,” I supply, as if I know of these matters. As if I care.  
  
“Yes, I suppose... Would you mind keeping an eye on her?” He turns to me. “Nothing too overt, just... lurk in the shadows.” In hindsight I think he meant it humorously, but I can’t help a moment of increased awareness. What is he implying? Does he mean I know how to?  
  
If look he’s giving me means he’s expecting a smile, I’m too late offering it. “If you wish.” I say with a curt nod and he answers with a thoughtful nod.  
  
So, my afternoon is spent lurking in the shadows, following Lady Mary and her many suitors about the Northbrook estate. It’s dull business, and the only reason I’m here is because of the chance that one of the suitors could be the Duke of Crowborough.  
  
It’s quite late in the afternoon when indeed the Duke makes an appereance. I ignore what his smile to her does to my guts and avoid smiling back. He can’t see me anyway and I don’t want to be the idiot in the bushes with a smile on his face.  
  
Lady Mary and the Duke get on very well. It’s all very decent, though, hushed words, shy smiles, curt nods, until he takes her hand and pulls her into the conservatory. I follow and just as I start wondering if he knows I’m following them, he casts a glance straight at my and I think I can detect a smile.  
  
Here, in the relative privacy of the conservatory he starts to flirt with her shamelessly. I can’t claim to know him well, but I wonder if he’s at all interested in her. Is this flirting genuine? Or is he merely playing with her, leaving her to think she has a chance with him? Would he marry her if he could? Or is it a display, a show to prove his normality? It’s almost like seeing a cat toy with its food, but is the cat interested in its prey, or is it just having a good time playing with it.  
  
Whichever the case, they almost kiss, but she turns her head before he can lean in. “I think I hear papa,” she states. It’s a blatant lie. “Please forgive me, your Grace.” And with that she rushes off.  
  
I’m aware that I should follow Lady Mary, but the only reason I agreed to this in the first place was to be able to see the Duke again, so I decide to follow him instead.  
  
“I know you’re there,” he remarks suddenly, when we’re quite a way away from the house, and hidden from view by the trees in this area of the park.  
  
I appear, a smile on my face. “Just making sure you don’t get lost,” I allow myself to tease.  
  
“Did you enjoy the show?” He turns to me and smiles. “I hope I didn’t make you jealous,” he teases back.  
  
“It was a good show.”  
  
“I thought you might like it.” He smiles rather proudly.  
  
So, it was a display, a show put on. Perhaps it’s twisted of me, but I find that thought very appealing. He flirted with her, played her, knowing I was there to see it. While she thought she was teasing him, he was making a fool of her, for his and my amusement. That thought is _very_ appealing to me. I would jump him, take him up against this tree if I could.  
  
"Meet me in my room tonight? I’ll be awake,” he says and leaves me.

******

So, that evening I make my excuses telling the other servants that I’m tired and head to his room.  
  
I don’t want to wake anyone, or rouse suspicion by knocking on the door. Instead I walk in, quietly, making sure I’m not seen doing it, and carefully closing the door behind me.  
  
I find him in bed, sound asleep. And _beautiful_. I don’t allow myself that kind of thought very often, but I can’t deny it now, in the privacy of his bedroom.  
  
I sit down on the bed and put a hand through his hair, trying to wake him as gently as I can. He doesn’t stir. I caress his cheek and the corner of his mouth moves, even though his eyes are still closed. His breathing too has changed a little; he’s awake, but pretending to be asleep. I touch his neck and the tugging at the corners of his mouth is more pronounced.  He’s teasing me. It’s working.  
  
Two can play that game. I start unbuttoning the buttons to his pajamas, slowly, exposing skin as I do. I follow my hands with kisses, planted carefully on his chest. His breathing becomes slightly more shallow.  
  
I don’t think I’m his first. Last month, at the Grantham’s, when I was assigned to serve him, and he took me to bed, was not, I think, his first time in vice. I would not think him experienced, as such, but he's not a novice, either.  
  
I would be surprised if this is the first time anyone has taken him in mouth, but the way he breathes and the heat that radiates from him as my kisses move down, it’s almost as if it _were_ new to him. He’s shivering with anticipation and it feels wonderful underneath me.  
  
******  
  
“I want to do that,” he says when I’m done, his breath still heavy from his climax. He gets up, pushes me onto the bed he does. And if it’s the first time he’s done _that_ than he is a bloody natural.  
  
When he’s done, I find myself wishing for nothing more than to stay and sleep here. It’s a bed unlike anything I’ve ever slept in and I don’t know if my legs will be able to take me to my own room after what’s just happened. Sadly, I know I can’t stay.  
  
I get up, but he pushes me down again. “Please stay a while.”  
  
“Your Grace, I-” I protest, but he interrupts me.  
  
“Your Grace? I should think we are quite past that. Edmund, please,” he assures, and gets me to lie down again.  
  
He puts an arm over my stomach and rests his head on my chest. We remain like this in silence for a while. And it’s nice. It’s _very_ nice. Comfortable in a way I’ve not been comfortable before, and I don’t mean the pillow or the sheets. I have to mind not to fall alseep.  
  
“Lady Grantham is a sweet woman,” he comments, when I almost do nod off.  
  
“She’s always kind to those she means to throw one of her daughters at.”  
  
“It will be no good.”  
  
“For obvious reasons.” I venture.  
  
“No,” he answers. “Lady Mary is not interested in marriage at all. She will end up marrying her cousin to secure the estate. And Lady Edith of course, has no money to speak of.”  
  
I frown. “Money?”  
  
It’s quiet for a while, but then he confides in me. “I’m broke, to put it bluntly,” he confesses. “I need to marry into money. The Grantham girls can’t provide that.” He looks up then, and turns quite serious. “I trust you’ll keep it to yourself.”  
  
“Of course,” I answer quietly, planting a kiss on his head, and I find I mean it. I don’t usually mean it. When one of the upstair gits confides in me, and I'm in a position where that information is worth something, I will betray the trust given, for personal gain. Obviously. But this is no upstairs git. This is Edmund. And I want to earn his trust. And I want to give him mine.  
  
And that’s quite new for me.


	8. A moment of reflection

Our meetings during the Season are few, but memorable. I try, where I can, to nudge the family to where Edward might be. I drop the odd comment, the occassional subtle suggestion. He, in turn, I believe, tries to make sure he is where the Granthams are.

Lady Mary thinks it means he’s flirting with her. I have to keep a straight face when she insinuates this. But at least it means I'm not the only one who thinks the meetings between the Grantham family and the Duke of Crowborough are too numerous to be a mere coincidence.

Sadly, even when we are in the same house, I can usually only see him from a distance. We need an excuse to be seen together, and it's only rarely that we can share longer than a moment. We've shared a few cigarettes, we've met by accident in the hallways of the house, or the gardens. When we meet, we can say very little, but we can nod, and sometimes his hand brushes mine in passing. You'd think these restraints might make the houses we meet terribly claustrophobic, but then there are those few times that we are able to meet at night. They make our times appart bearable.

At night, in those few nights when the Granthams happen to stay over and Edward does to, he is mine. I make sure I have a glass of warm milk to offer him (in case I am spotted in the hallway), I go to his room, we talk, we kiss and I stay. And every time we meet, our arrangement becomes more natural, more normal, in a way. It’s strange. If anyone saw us we could be reported, we could go to prison even. He would be disgraced, I would be fired, certainly. But when I am with him and when he is with me and we snuggle up against each other, it all feels so natural. It feels so right. It makes it hard to believe that there is anything wrong with us at all. The London Season has never been this good to me.

“I’ve missed you,” he pouted when I met him only last week, as he raised the sheets so I could join him, and revealing his naked form.

“I’ve missed _you_ ,” I drawled and set the milk aside.

I made a show of taking my clothes off. He enjoyed every moment of it and nearly moped when I joined him under the sheets. I kissed his softly haired chest and took his hand in mine. Soft hands. Hands that haven’t seen a day’s work in their lifes. But it doesn't matter. He's mine we don't care about class or background. We just lay there, enjoying each other’s company.

How is that any different from any other two lovers meeting after a time spent apart?

Between our meetings he writes to me. When he first asked, I was surprised.

“May I write to you?” He asked simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“You want to write to me?” I echoed, unable to keep the incredulousness out of my voice.

“I would love to write to you,” he assured me.

“If you like, then, yes. I’d like that.” He kissed me in response and that was all we said that night.

I'll admit I thought it very strange at first, that he should want to write to me, but that simple promise has kept me warm since.

So he does write to me now. We can’t meet as often as we would like, so his writing keeps us connected. I receive several letters from him, all in discrete envelopes, none written on his own stationary (but what the hell do I care about that?). It's his writing, his words. He calls me ‘dear’ and ‘dearest’, puts down meaningless gossip, feeds me silly little facts, and ends his letters with ‘All my love’, ‘Yours’ and ‘Edward’.

I think I’m in love. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I have no other explanation for the feeling in my guts and the rush I get every time I receive a letter from him. I keep the letters hidden in a drawer, wrapped together, private reminders of his affection for me. I’m not known for my kindness, but his words bring a smile to my face. I don't read them over and over, I'm not that soppy, but I know they are there and I know what they say.

I haven’t been able to write back (I abide by the rule not to put anything in writing), but I cherish his words to me. He knows this, I think we know more of each other than we are able to tell each other. We have a bond of a sort, a connection, an understanding of the deepest sort. I think I’m in love. And I think he feels the same. It’s not something you dare hope, when you’re like me. Affection, dare I say it, love. I didn’t consider it possible, didn’t even consider it relevant. Take what you can get, don't hope for the impossible. But it's here now. It's happening. And though it might happen only in the shadows, and it will never see the light of day, I have a love.


	9. A moment to say goodbye

Life is smiling at me for the first time in _years_. I feel so good that even the news that Watson is coming back in September after the Season doesn’t bring me down. It helps that I’m fairly certain his return is of a temporary nature and that he’ll be out of everyone’s hairs in no time, but still.  
  
The only thing that _does_ bring me down is the nearing end of the Season. We can only ever meet by chance – be it secretly organized or through sheer luck. Without the Season to bring us together amidst the chaos of parties and invitations, there’s no reason for us to be seen together at all.  
  
I meet him one last time, by chance, at the Grantham’s residence – he asks for a glass of milk and the request happens to be passed on to me. (Or rather, he dropped comments until he was invited to the Grantham’s once more, I made damn sure that Watson didn’t come back _before_ the end of the season (thus avoiding being sent back to Downton), he asked for a glass of milk just as his valet was going to go to bed, making sure he would pass it on (‘oh, no, don’t bother, please, just pass it on, send someone else and go to sleep, you’ve earned a good night’s rest’), I made sure I was there to receive the request – in fact, I was already warming some milk, supposedly for myself – and received the message with a sneer, though I complied in the end. This is how these things work.)  
  
I close the door behind me carefully, set the milk on a side-table and walk to where he is standing, waiting for me. “I want to come with you,” I confess in a drawl that I know he finds attractive, and touch his arm. “Take me on ase your valet.”  
  
“I don’t want you as my valet,” he whines, touching my face.  
  
I take his hand in mine. “I know. I don’t want to be your valet.”  It’s all we can say, and it’s as much an ‘I love you’ as saying the words.  
  
I stay the night. We sleep poorly, but it doesn’t matter. Every time we wake up we are together and that makes up for the poor night's rest.  
  
I leave him early in the morning, as I always do, without waking him. I don’t know when we will be able to meet again. He’ll be busy, anyway, and he’s not in need of another servant. Without reason, we can’t be together. But he has promised to keep writing me and I have promised to write back. I want to leave us with the chance we might meet again, so I won’t say goodbye.  
  
It’s a sordid thing.  
  
I wish things were different. It’s not something I’ve ever wished before, but I do now. I wish I wasn’t a criminal. I wish that what I did wasn’t an offense. I wish that I could meet him in a park in broad daylight and that we could walk together. And people would look oddly at us, because I’m working class and he’s a Duke. But no one would throw us in gaol. No one would press charges. No one would be disgusted by the mere sight…-  
  
I’m an idiot and I shouldn’t day-dream about things that will never be. I should hold to the shadows, because that is where _he_ is and I should be thankful that he’s there. Take what you can get.  
  
But I can’t help but hope that I could meet him again, that I might serve in his household, or work somewhere close to him, and that I might sleep in his bed until we’re both old. To be held. To not die alone. I could stay in the shadows if that is my reward.  It would be good enough.  
  
But for now the soppiness is over. I can't afford that sort of thing. The Season's over. I'm going back to Downton, and all this goes under lock and key.

What happens in the shadows doesn't actually happen at all.


	10. Snippets after the Season

September’s drizzle conveys my mood exceptionally well. It’s not pouring down, it’s not raining cats and dogs. It’s just a bit of rain. Drizzle’s fine, really. It can almost be ignored. But it’s there.

I’m not in a state, I’m not desperately counting the days and hours, pining for the day we might meet again. I can ignore that part of my life, keep what happened far away from work and my life at Downton. But, like drizzle, it’s there. It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t possess me, it doesn’t soak, but it’s there.

I miss him.

There is no guarantee I will see him before the beginning of next year’s Season, in April. In fact, there is no guarantee I will see him even then.

I’m quite confident about my chances as valet, but the future is never too sure.

***

Edward writes, as promised, a few letters over the months, providing me with harmless gossip and light-hearted news. I write him too, about work here at Downton and the servant’s lives. He likes hearing about that. I suppose it’s an amusing theatrical piece to someone who doesn’t live it. Likewise, the who’s and what’s of the Duke of Crowborough entertain  _me_.

Where during the Season he wrote of how he missed my arms around me, and signed with ‘all my love’, ‘yours’, now he keeps his letters more innocent and signs ‘E’. He’s grown wiser, I suppose. I don’t mind. I always sign my letters with ‘T’. We don’t need the actual words to convey what we mean. We’re  _writing_ each other; it’s proof enough.

***

Christmas has given me an unsurprising, but very welcome gift; Mr. Watson has finally decided to leave service permanently. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Good riddance to the bastard and hello to my promotion to valet. It’s temporary for now, but I’m sure Grantham will ask me for a permanent position soon.

***

Lord Grantham has this idea to hire someone else to be his valet. He seems to be under the impression that I would be glad to return ‘to normal’, to my duties as a footman. Something Carson told him, no doubt. I don’t think our dear butler trusts me to be his Lordship’s valet.

I don’t find the time, the moment or the right words to persuade Lord Grantham that I’d be perfectly happy and perfectly suitable for the task, which is my fault, I know, but these things are harder to say than it might seem. So he will hire a new man and I will go back to footman. Sod that.

***

The new man won’t be able to start until April, for reasons we are not told, so I’m to act as valet until then.

We get to Lord Grantham’s London club and by sheer chance, the Duke is there as well. (It’s the same sort of chance that keeps causing us to meet).

I sneak into his room at the club after midnight and though we both know I won’t be able to stay, it’s a moment and we will make the most of it.

“So you’ll go back to being a footman,” he says, eager for more gossip as he takes off his robe.

“So it seems.”

“I can find you a job if you want to leave,” he says.

I shrug. “I’ll be a valet soon enough.  I’ll find a way.”

He sits down on the bed and I kneel to take off his shoes. “You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“I want to do it,” I drawl as I look up to his face. “Besides; we need an excuse for my being here. Might as well make it real.” I proceed by unbuttoning his shirt, but he takes my hand in his.

“You can’t stay,” he tells me.

He’s right, of course. This isn’t a house in chaos. They will leave in the early morning and so will we. It’s too risky to do any more than this. I plant a kiss on his forehead instead. “I know.”

We’ll meet again in April, we _have_ to meet again in April – I’ll make damn sure of that.

***

April should have marked the beginning of a new Season, but the Titanic has ruined  _everything_. To make matters worse, Mr. Bates, Grantham’s new valet, has arrived. He is, as it happens, an old army chum of his Lordship. Turns out the whole thing was a fixed match. I didn’t stand a chance.

The only thing that brightens the month is that Grantham’s two heirs were on the Titanic and died. Everyone is talking of Lady Mary becoming the ‘rightful’ heiress to the money and Estate and that brings joy to my heart. Not because of Lady Mary, of course, I couldn’t care less what happens to her, but I connect the dots and suddenly I see a future.

We could be together.

Edward needs an heiress, he said so himself. Well. He could marry Mary and they could take me on, as valet, or better still, as butler. She would have him during the day, and he would be mine in the night.  They would make sure an heir is born, and the rest of the time they would sleep apart. I would sneak into his room at night and no one would ever uncover the truth. We could be together in a way I daren’t dream of.

I decide to send him an urgent telegram.

***

At dinner, a week or so later, I overhear that the Duke of Crowborough has indeed asked to come around. My patience is tried once more, because he’s not invited over until they’re in half-mourning, which is a month from now.

I’ve been patient since September, of course, leaving what happened in London during the Season out of my thoughts. But now that something might grow out of this, now that there is a possibility to a life I couldn't before think could be, I do find myself counting the days for his arrival. I love him and we might get a chance to make it real.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during S01E01, just after Thomas' meeting with the Duke in the guest bedroom.

Sod him. Youthful dalliance. Youthful  _bloody_ dalliance.  _Sod him_! How _dare_ he? 

How _dare_ he sneak into my room and take those letters? Upper-class arse! Just because he’s a Duke doesn’t mean he can ignore people’s rights of privacy! I have bloody rights! Bastard. _;Bastard_

And he thinks he got to me. That little smile on his face, that taunt - 'unless you want to stay'. He thinks he can hurt me. He thinks his words mean something to me. He thinks  _he_ means something to me. Ha! I don’t _care_. I don’t care about anyone. And if he thinks I felt anything for him, he’s bloody wrong.

I kept those letters, didn’t I? Did that for a reason. Sentiment? I think not. Black mail material. Obviously. I won’t be taken for a fool.

Think I loved him? Think that’s what these tears are for? Please. You don’t honestly think I loved him? I needed him to get away from here. That’s all. I tried to use him and it went wrong. These are tears of frustration, of anger, not sadness. He was my ticket out of here. Away from Bates, away from Carson, away from being a bloody footman. He ruined my plans. It happens. 

 Sod him.

 Dry those bloody tears. Pick up and go on. No use feeling frustrated. I’ve never been the kind of fool who dreams. I’m not the kind of fool who hopes for things that just don’t happen. Pick up and go on.

 When you’re like me you take what you can get, and you don’t seek out what you can’t have. There isn’t anything else for the likes of us. How can there be? When you live in the shadows, what good can come out of it? When you live your life as a criminal you have to expect being deceived. It follows. We’re cheats by nature. 

  So you come prepared and you don’t let it get to you. You can never trust, you can never open up. So you don't. It’s too dangerous, and it’s pointless besides. There isn’t anything else but cheating in the shadows for the likes of us, so what’s the use?

 And when you’re like me, you know this, so it doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t matter.

 No care, no pain. Broken hearts are for the weak-minded.

And it’s _fine_.


End file.
